“But I do.” She can’t abide the thought of someone being proud of her, not after what happened “Anyway, that’s what they called her, Tracy. Tracy changed her mind at the end, the very end, when we’re standing there stooped over with water up to our necks and people are screaming and it’s all so incredibly real and final you almost just want it to be over with. Done, you just want it to be done. And that’s when she decides she wants to live.” A shudder passes through Natalie as she remembers the scene. “I’m trying to move up front with Selena so we can get out,” she continues, “When Tracy grabs onto us and says she doesn’t want to die. She was so sincere, so scared and pathetic and sincere. She knew, I think. At that moment, she knew this whole Atlantis thing was all just a great big crock and that she was going to die. Really die. Not transition to some otherworld. Die.”
Maureen rubs her shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“She wouldn’t let go of me, Mo. So you know what I did? I punched her. Here she was, asking me, begging me for help, and I smashed her face. Nice, huh?”
Maureen whistles. “Jesus, Natalie,” she says softly, “Forgive me for saying this, but so fucking what? You had to get out of there. You couldn’t let her hold you back—you’d have drowned, too. That wasn’t the time for nice.”
“I shouldn’t have hit her.”
“You should have done exactly what you did, which was whatever it took. Come on, Natalie, stop being so damn hard on yourself. You couldn’t save them all.”
It seems an odd thing to say. “I wasn’t trying to save them all,” she snaps. “Just one. I only wanted to save one.”
Maureen’s eyes widen. “But Natalie,” she says in a surprised tone, “don’t you know? You did.”
* * *
Less than an hour later, Natalie, still stunned, is being rolled in a wheelchair through a maze of elevators and hallways to the hospital’s newly-renovated pediatric wing. “I could walk, you know,” she tells the young attendant who’s pushing her.
“Hospital regulations,” the woman says. “Sorry.”
Natalie shrugs. Actually, she’s kind of glad for the rule. The last thing she feels like right now is a long walk. Aside from still being sore and weak, she is also incredibly nervous. She can’t believe this isn’t just another dream sent to torture her, a false hope soon to be dashed. Selena, alive. The idea doesn’t conform to the script of her life, to the dictates of the ring. She pinches herself and laughs at the silliness of it because of course you can pinch yourself in a dream and have it seem utterly real. Until she sees Selena for herself, until she feels her breath on her own skin, she won’t believe it, because she can’t.
“That was really brave what you did,” the attendant says unexpectedly. “Really brave.”
Their second elevator ride takes them to a brightly-lit hallway painted in vibrant greens and yellows. Standing in the middle of it, anxiously pacing back and forth, is Marida Latham. Her hair is mussed and her face has the pasty tone of too many sleepless nights. but when she sees Natalie her eyes smile with such warmth and delight that she seems almost like a completely different woman than the one Natalie met only days before. Even more beautiful, but something else: happy. Happy in a way that transforms the soul and molds the dull clay of the body into something alive and vital.
She greets Natalie with epic joy, almost lifting her out of the wheelchair and hugging her in a smothering embrace, sobbing, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” until finally Natalie, embarrassed, gently pushes her away.
“Please,” she says softly.
The attendant with the wheelchair turns to leave, and Natalie follows Marida into a cheerfully decorated room where Selena is lying in bed, pale and small. As Natalie approaches. she looks up and grins, stretching out her hand to feel her rescuer’s face. “It’s you,” she says happily.
Natalie nods. “It’s me.”
“You saved me. Just like you promised.”
The touch of Selena’s hand on her cheek is electrifying. Natalie’s heart is immediately consumed by opposites—sadness and joy, acceptance and anger, gratitude and rejection. Overwhelmed, she collapses over Selena, holding her tight, and weeps. She weeps for her sister, who died, and for this little girl, who lived. She weeps for Aunt Emily, for her mother. for all the people who die from lack of hope; and she weeps over the Ralstons of the world who use that hopelessness to destroy them. She weeps for herself, for second chances, and for a world that makes them so necessary and so rare.
Selena cries with her, and her mother beside them, until they all look up with swollen, grateful, unsure eyes.
“You’re OK?” Natalie asks, brushing tears from the little girl’s sunken cheeks.
“I’m good,” Selena assures her.
“The doctors say she’s going to be fine,” Marida interjects. “Thanks to you.”
Natalie keeps her eyes on Selena. “I really thought I lost you there.”
The girl nods solemnly. “I saw a light.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“It was beautiful. And so warm. My mom says it was God. Do you believe in God?”
Natalie strokes the child’s freshly washed hair. it smells of sea air. Does she believe in God? Sometimes, she thinks; sometimes not. Sometimes God just turns out to be a helicopter.
“What do you think it was?” she asks.
“I think it was God,” Selena says confidently. “I really wanted to go to it, you know?”
“I know.”
“But the girl wouldn’t let me.”
“The girl?”
“An angel,” Selena’s mother interjects. “An angel saved her.”
Natalie’s hand freezes. “Tell me about her,” she urges.
“I was looking at the light when she called to me.” Selena smiles, her eyes focused vaguely on the memory. “It was almost like she stepped out of it, like she was a piece of the light breaking away. She called my name, she had this really pretty voice. And then I saw her, a girl just like me.” Her voice fades.
“And what did she say?”
A frown replaces Selena’s grin. “That I had to go back. I told her I didn’t want to go back, that I wanted to stay with her, in the light, but she said I couldn’t. She said it wasn’t my turn yet, and I couldn’t stay.”
“Did she tell you her name?”
Natalie waits breathlessly for her response, but Selena only looks confused. “Her name?”
“The angel—did she tell you who she was?”
The girl shakes her head. “No. Just that I was safe now and there were people who needed me and I had to help them.”
Marida comes around the bed and leans over her daughter. “Tell her who, Selena, “ she says.
“Mommy, it’s silly.”
“I needed you,” her mother prods kindly, “but who else?”
The girl offers up a weak shrug. She seems embarrassed. “My mom was one. The angel said you were the other. Isn’t that dumb? I mean, I needed you, not the other way around,”
The room becomes very still. Natalie stares at Selena for a long time, letting herself be absorbed into the little girl’s fretful, hopeful gaze. “No, “ she says finally, holding back another wave of tears, “It’s not silly at all. I need you, Selena. More than you can ever know.”
Selena touches her cheek again. “Then I’m glad I came back,” she says happily. “The angel was right. She said I would be, and I am.”
She beams so brightly Natalie thinks it’s like looking into the face of an angel. Perhaps there are such things after all, she thinks. if so, then they must look like this, like a little girl who has found her way home.
* * *
Simon Ballard is waiting for her when she returns to her room. He greets her as though theirs has always been an amicable relationship. Natalie has a hard time responding in kind. For this moment at least she feels happier than she has in years, and she doesn’t want anything to intrude on that. And Ballard, she is instantly certain, will do precisely t
hat.
“I hope you don’t mind my coming by,” he says.
“This isn’t really the best time.”
“I understand, but this can’t wait.” He sits down in the chair next to her bed and pulls a folder from his briefcase. “I’ve been going over the transcript of your conversation with Ralston.”
“You weren’t there?”
He peers at her over the top of his glasses. “What good would it have done?”
“Probably none,” she concedes.
“Anyway, I’ve been looking at this. There’s nothing here we can’t deal with at trial. The fact that you visited Ralston at all isn’t good, but we can explain It, I think. And his side won’t want to go into it anyway, because it raises all sorts of unpleasant issues for them.”
“Excuse me. but what the hell are you talking about?”
He gives her that distinctive, my-but-you’re-an-idiot look of his. “Ralston’s retrial. Now that you’ve saved Selena Latham—congratulations on that by the way—I’m assuming you’ll want to change your mind about not testifying against him. That is right, isn’t it?”
She stares at him, not sure how to respond. It’s not like the question hasn’t occurred to her. She just hasn’t been able to answer it yet, that’s all. It’s much more complicated than Ballard realizes.
“I thought you said we couldn’t win.”
“I told you before, that’s not what I said. But all that’s moot at this point anyway.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you’re a hero now.”
“Ah.” The hero thing again. Natalie picks up her fork and begins playing with the remains of her lunch, which is still sitting on its tray by the side of her bed. “You’d think someone would have taken this away by now.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard. It’s one celebrity against another now, is that it?”
“Basically, yes. I don’t know if anyone’s told you, but there’s a whole village of media planted outside desperate just to photograph you. That kind of thing goes a long way, Natalie. We have a solid shot at winning this thing now. And with Selena safe, there’s no reason for you not to testify.”
Natalie swirls the fork in the bowl of tapioca. She always thought tapioca looked like vomit. “He was behind all of this, you know. Just like I said he was. He set the whole thing up.”
“We don’t really know that.”
“I do.”
“How?”
She thinks about that. Mostly, she just knows. And part of what she knows is that she will never be able to prove it, even entirely to herself, any more than she was ever able to prove that the explosion that killed his followers in Normalville was deliberate. Ralston covers his tracks well.
“He told me where to find her, didn’t he?”
“He told you to look for your father.”
“It was enough.”
“Maybe, but it doesn’t amount to anything. My guess is your professor friend, Scopes, was right. That crazy old lady was the one who had it in for you.”
Natalie nods. Of course, that’s how it was meant to look. “Is that what Scopes thinks?”
“Pretty much. There’s no evidence to suggest otherwise, Natalie. I’d really urge you not to push it too hard. You don’t want people starting to think you’re paranoid about him.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Just that there’s still only one crime we can really nail him on—killing your sister. If you genuinely want to see him punished, that’s the only way it’s going to happen. You need to testify against him in his retrial and not do anything in the meantime to undermine your credibility.”
“My credibility? I’m not the fucking mass murderer here.”
Ballard studies her with hard eyes. “We can get him for only one. That hasn’t changed. Are you going to help or not?”
Turning away, Natalie begins mashing the fork through the tapioca, through the vomit. Is she going to help or not? She feels so angry and confused; the answer eludes her. There is no easy answer.
“I made a deal,” she says eventually.
“I don’t understand.”
“Just by going to talk to him. It was like saying that if he told me what I needed to know, then I wouldn’t testify against him.”
Ballard glances back at the transcript. “You never said anything like that.”
“Not explicitly. But it was understood.”
“And you’re going to honor that?”
Natalie stirs the tapioca in a slow, swirling motion. round and round the edge of the small bowl. How can she explain this? Yes, she could testify against Ralston. And yes, Selena would probably be safe if she did, at least for now. But Ralston is the master of the ring of years, the king of new shoots in old wounds. He will always be able to find another Selena, a new Stephanie to punish for Natalie’s sins. And what then? How will she feel then?
“I’ll think about it,” she says.
“You don’t have time to think about it.” Ballard throws the transcript back in his briefcase. “I need to know whether we have a case or not. Are you in or out?”
“I said I’d think about lt.”
“Incredible. Fine, you have a couple of days. After that, as far as I’m concerned, we’re done.”
As she listens to the receding click-clack of his thick shoes, Natalie stirs the tapioca and tries to wrap her mind around a contradiction: the inevitability of cycles, of the ring; and Selena’s angel, sending her home.
* * *
She’s still doing that—minus the tapioca, which was finally retrieved by a harried-looking woman in a blue smock—when Maureen comes by again that evening. She’s carrying a small stack of papers and Natalie can tell from her expression that she has something serious on her mind.
“I was just talking with your doctor,” Maureen says. “He tells me they’re going to release you tomorrow. You’re coming home with me, right?”
“Until I can find a place, if that’s okay?”
“Of course it’s okay,” she says as she sets her stack of papers down in front of Natalie. On top is a brochure with a photograph of a family gathered prayerfully under a tree. Natalie doesn’t need to look closely to know that they’re gathered around a headstone.
“Aunt Emily?” she asks.
‘‘I’m sorry, Natalie. But you really need to decide on a place.”
Natalie nods. It’s another decision she would rather avoid, put off forever.
But there’s no one else to make it now, and you can’t just not bury someone. Especially when you played a role in making it necessary.
“This place looks good,” Maureen continues. “Very pretty, lots of nice statues and trees. It’s the same cemetery as your uncle, just a new section. Not far from him, really. You could pretty much walk from one to the other.”
Natalie takes the brochure and thumbs through it. “Yeah.” she says, “It looks nice.”
“So I should go ahead?”
It seems like a perfectly good solution, but somehow Natalie can’t bring herself to say yes. She still can’t see her aunt lying on one of these hillsides, surrounded by strangers.
“There really isn’t anything better?”
“I’ve checked it out, Natalie.” There’s a hint of exasperation in Maureen’s voice. “I know you don’t like the thought of her being alone, but—not to be hard or anything, I just don’t think it matters all that much to her at this point.”
“Because she’s dead?”
“Well, yes.”
Natalie nods. Maureen’s right, of course: Dead is dead. Why can’t she just accept that?
Maybe it’s because of Selena’s angel. Or maybe it’s just guilt.
She goes to the window and looks outside. Ballard wasn’t exaggerating—there really is a media village out there. Down in the parking lot, a man holding a microphone points up at her window and suddenly a dozen heads and cameras turn in her direction. She ducks back behind
the curtains.
“Are people really saying I’m a hero?” she asks.
“Just for starters.”
“I’m no hero, Mo. You know what I realized while I was in that van? I wasn’t there because of Selena, or even for Stephanie. I was there for me. I was doing it for me.”
“They’re calling you a hero, Natalie. Not a saint.”
“You don’t understand.” Natalie hesitates, not sure how much to confess, but decides this ought to be known, this secret of hers, this truth about the so-called hero. “I wanted to die.” she continues. “I went there to die.”
Maureen seems unfazed. “But you didn’t, did you? You had the chance, you could have. You didn’t have to fight your way out of that van, but you did. You chose life.”
“Only because of Selena.”
“Exactly, Natalie,” Maureen’s voice is gentle but triumphant. “Don’t you get it? Because of Selena. You did it for Selena and that’s what makes you a hero.”
Slowly, Natalie turns to face her friend. Could that be right, she wonders? Maybe. At least maybe. Hot tears roll down her cheeks. She has felt unworthy for so long and suddenly, in that one moment she has been given a glimpse of someone inside herself worth saving. Not a hero, but someone who, when confronted with the choice, rejected the easy path and chose to do the right thing. The real right thing: she chose to live.
She has an image of herself, then, lying atop her sister’s grave across years of wasted nights. And an image of her aunt, comatose at home. Both, in their own way, running fast from life.
A strange thought comes to her. At first it seems crazy and wrong, too unthinkable a sacrifice, and then just as quickly it seems totally right, the only real option.
She hands Maureen back her brochure and stack of papers. “Thanks,” she says finally, “but I have a better idea.”
* * *
The funeral comes on one of those crisp, clear fall days when the sky seems to forget its relentless drive toward winter and the air hints more of late summer nights than of impending snow. Maureen is there, along with Marida Latham and Selena, looking almost completely recovered even in the wheelchair her mother has insisted on bringing for her. Her doctors have concluded that she suffered no permanent damage to her lungs or brain; as for emotional scars, that will take years to determine, if not a lifetime.
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